Unhinge the Universe

by Aleksandr Voinov;L. A. Witt

  “I tried,” he said, lips close to the ground. “I tried.”

  “What?” somebody asked. It might just as well have been his brother. Or a commanding officer.

  “I made it to the rendezvous point.” Still not enough—or was it? “Nothing moved inside.”

  Something shuffled, a door opened and closed.

  Steps. Amidst the carnage in the lower room, suddenly steps coming up from behind. “Who’s . . .”

  “A friend.” Speaking German. An odd accent, but a familiar voice. Hagen felt himself relax. He’d almost thought it was an enemy. One of those who’d killed everybody here and would now kill him. “I don’t want to go upstairs.”

  “You don’t have to.”

  Gott, the best thing he’d heard all day.

  “Failed,” he murmured. “We failed.”

  “Not yet.” Fingers ran through his hair. A gentle, soothing gesture that nearly lulled him all the way to sleep. “There is still time.”

  That accent. There was something about that accent. Hagen couldn’t put his finger on it. Couldn’t think when that kind hand kept stroking his hair.

  “You’re in no condition to carry on,” the soft voice said, still strangely speaking Hagen’s mother tongue. “Tell me where to go. I will finish it.”

  “The papers.” Something was missing against his skin; nothing but emptiness where he was certain he’d tucked the documents for safekeeping. “Gone.”

  “No, Hagen. They’re here. I have them. Tell me where to take them.”

  The mission ran through Hagen’s mind. The plane. The drop. The mill. And from there?

  From there, they’d . . .

  He couldn’t remember.

  He didn’t care.

  John sat back on his heels and sighed heavily. “He’s asleep.” Just his damned luck. He’d been pushing Hagen, pushing until he’d found and gone way beyond the man’s limits, and now Hagen had just stopped fighting. Suits me right. Part of him envied the depth and speed of the crash; another part was fucking furious.

  And still, the soldier was sprawled out as if he’d been slaughtered, talking in that weak little voice, tugged at something inside John. Never mind the long legs and the curves and lines and hard planes of his body. That, too. The ease with which he’d responded to a touch that was not threatening, not meant to hurt or scare. Manipulate, yes, but Hagen didn’t know that.

  Giving Hagen even a few of those precious twenty-four hours grated on him. Every hour they lost could make a difference, could cost lives.

  Like this . . . Hagen did look like nothing more than an overgrown boy. Strong enough to break bones and kill men, determined and fearless enough to walk through hell for his brother and his Führer, and now nothing but a sleeping child, one too exhausted to go on.

  Damn, John liked it better when they fought back. When he could focus on breaking them, crawling into their minds without having to fend off pity at the same time. He placed a hand between Hagen’s shoulder blades, the warmth and power of that body holding way too much attraction. He did like him much better when he was fighting back. Goddamn this.

  “So what do we do now?” the guard asked.

  John’s head snapped toward him, and he glared at him as if he’d barged in on a friend who needed rest rather than an asset who needed to fucking talk. “You can start by not waking him up.”

  The guard blinked. “I . . . okay.”

  John pushed himself to his feet. “I’ll stay with him. In case he starts talking again.”

  “Do you want me . . .” The guard gestured at the door, at the chair, at the door again.

  “Outside.”

  “Right. Yes, sir.” A sharp nod, a quietly closed door, and John was alone with the peacefully resting Nazi.

  He pulled the chair closer to the rack and leaned down, resting his elbows on his knees and rubbing his temples with his fingertips. Whatever am I going to do with you, Hagen Friedrich?

  The German didn’t move. His face was completely relaxed now, no sign of the fear or anger that had kept vying for dominance. As close to peace as the man could be—as any man probably could be in this war—while still drawing breath.

  Before he realized what he was doing, and without the faintest idea why, John reached for Hagen. He drew the backs of his fingers down Hagen’s cheek, all the way down to his coarse, unshaven jaw.

  The split in his lips didn’t look like it was healing, not with all the rough handling, but other than that, if you liked the strong-jawed type, silvery blond with surprisingly intense blue eyes, he was also hellishly attractive. Pale skin that seemed ready to flush when the man did so much as breathe or laugh too hard. It might be interesting to see him actually laugh, to test that theory. Not that finding anything to laugh about would be easy.

  He was mourning his brother, after all. And the best he could hope for now was being shipped to the States to wait out the war in a POW camp. He’d survive, at least. The Red Cross would do their job, and after everything was done, he might even be reunited with his family.

  John resented the idea of letting him get away to a POW camp without making him give up what he had to give. It hardly seemed fair to the others. If Hagen carried even a scrap of information that would shorten the war, reduce the loss of Allied lives or even so much as gave them an advantage, then by God, it was John’s duty to get it out of him.

  But how? He’d never been one to sympathize with Nazis. Particularly not Nazis who’d less than a day ago snapped the neck of his lover.

  Bitterness crept into John’s mouth, and the fingers still stroking Hagen’s hair curled with restrained fury. The German stirred a little, murmured in his sleep, and stilled. And to John’s surprise, his own hand had relaxed, transforming from an angry claw to something meant to soothe and comfort.

  He jerked his hand back and sat up in the chair, drawing away from Hagen as if he carried some disease, some fever that was turning John into a fucking lunatic. A Nazi sympathizer.

  Except it wasn’t the Nazis who had his sympathy. It wasn’t the Nazis who’d lost a brother, and who’d involuntarily peeled back that outer armor of medals and swastikas to reveal the terrified boy underneath. No, he didn’t sympathize with the Nazis, but with Hagen. There was something about Hagen.

  He stood and paced, tried to reconcile these emotions that were so at odds with each other. War seemed much more like a paradox than Clausewitz’s dogma that it was politics by other means. Politics didn’t figure here. Necessities, yes. Pitiful humanities, regulations and duties, and orders. Everything was easier when both sides wore their uniforms, like costumes in a play, though it was shaping up to be a Danse Macabre. Seeing the German in his own uniform rather than Michael’s had had a soothing effect on his mind, like the lines were clear. But now he wasn’t so sure those lines were there at all. And that was madness. Pure madness.

  God. Who was breaking who?

  Hagen’s blue eyes were open, and John checked his watch. Three hours since the man had faded into delirious mumbling.

  “How are you feeling? Ready to continue?”

  Hagen blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes, cursing in his native tongue when the cuff smacked his nose. Then he stared up at the ceiling. John was about to ask him again, but then Hagen set his jaw. His eyebrows knitted together, and when he finally spoke, he didn’t look at John.

  In German, he said, “I am ready to continue.” His gaze slid toward John, and his eyes narrowed a little.

  John swallowed. “Maybe some coffee first?”

  The peacefully sleeping boy was long gone now, a hardened, suspicious soldier in his place, and in spite of the chains still binding Hagen’s wrists, John had the distinct sense of the predator/prey roles reversing.

  “Coffee?” Hagen’s lip curled slightly, and he laughed without humor. “You call that coffee? It’s us who’ve been at war five years, but very well.” He gestured dismissively, but it wasn’t just the chain that made the motion heavy and fatigued. Whateve
r had weakened Hagen—the pills they’d confiscated?—hadn’t released its hold just yet. Somehow that didn’t make Hagen any less dangerous.

  John summoned coffee, and by the time it had arrived, Hagen was sitting up. The German rubbed his forehead with both hands, swearing in his own language. Every time John spoke, even to make somewhat pleasant conversation until they were both awake enough to continue, Hagen glared at him, suspicion etched into every contour of his unlined face.

  Hagen finished his coffee and handed the cup back to John. Then, his tone flat and even, only betraying the tiniest hint of the suspicion in his expression, he asked, “Do you speak German, John?”

  Well, he had wanted Hagen to resist more, even fight. To keep the lines clear. To remember they were enemies. And to remember what they’d done to each other.

  “I don’t think it’s your place to ask questions. In fact, you owe me an answer.” John stretched. “Back to the room.” It was useful to have different spaces for different things. Cells for the prisoner to reflect and rest and recover. The interrogation room to ask hard questions. There was no use in mixing both up. John wasn’t a visitor, Hagen not somebody who received visitors.

  John reached out and wrapped his fingers around the chain between the cuffs. The man tensed, glared at him, then closed his strong grip around John’s wrist and held him.

  John glanced at the unexpected and forbidden contact, then locked eyes with Hagen. “Take your hand off me.”

  Hagen didn’t let go. He searched John’s eyes for a moment, then quietly—quiet enough the guards outside wouldn’t hear—asked, “Is that really what you want me to do?”

  No. No, I don’t.

  “Yes,” John said through clenched teeth. “You’re my prisoner. This”—he tried to wrench his arm free—“is inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate?” Tightening his grip, Hagen laughed and shook his head. “The etiquette of war, is that it? A man can’t touch another man, even when that man he’s touching took advantage of his stupor to extract information and”—the hand pulled toward Hagen—“steal a touch?”

  God, this isn’t happening. John’s pulse jumped into his throat. “You’re holding a moment’s compassion against me? That’s no way to make me inclined to go easy on you. Because, trust me, you haven’t encountered anything yet. I’m letting you sleep, I’m letting you eat, you’re not getting beaten . . . you don’t want me to go hard on you, Hagen. Now let go of me.”

  Hagen glanced to the door. “You wanted to touch me. Why?”

  Because you’re a lost child and you’re mourning your brother. You’re not all monster. Maybe you’re not a monster at all. “Making sure you were still breathing. Now let me go.”

  Hagen did, which came as a surprise. “Damn. Because that felt nice.”

  Why would he say that? And how to respond? John pulled back somewhat, focused his mind on the indirect threats—to withhold water, food, and sleep—but for what it was worth, Hagen seemed genuine. It might have felt nice. In a place where he was under constant threat and cold and tired and emotionally raw, maybe a hand touching his head, his shoulders, his face . . . could only feel good. In the military, any affection, even the most casual one, which this wasn’t, cast a pall of suspicion over everything. Being affectionate with an enemy?

  John shook his head and motioned for Hagen to get up. “You owe me answers.” And I’ll have them, and more, to ship you off to a POW camp and be done with you.

  Chained to the chair again, like an animal. Nothing in the room to look at, no idea of the time. How long had he been passed out? He was still bone-tired, wrung dry of every drop of passion and anger, but that was just the pills. He’d feel better with another, even just half of one, but he knew that would pass, too. The human body needed sleep and rest; the freedom the pills gave him was to decide when and where, but he always knew there was a price to pay for that. He could march for longer, and he sometimes suspected the pills did other things, too, like dampen fear, boost morale, suppress hunger.

  No wonder then that the interrogator had gotten into his head. The lack had made him more vulnerable. He wasn’t weak, just exhausted.

  He idly closed his hands around the chain connecting his wrists. Opened. Closed, then looked up from his knees to the man sitting opposite him. I’m ready, he’d said, but was he ever truly ready for this?

  “Your mission.” John sat opposite, studying him carefully. “You were to meet your brother, Major Siegfried Friedrich, at the mill. He was carrying sensitive information, was stranded behind enemy lines, and your unit was to escort him safely to . . . where, exactly? What was your brother’s purpose? Who was to receive the intel? A waiting general in Berlin?”

  Not bad at all, so Hagen dropped his gaze and shrugged. “Is that your question? Which one?”

  “No. I’m just thinking out loud.”

  Oh, really? Hagen shrugged, concentrating on steadying the low roiling in his veins. If he’d known the Pervitin would be confiscated, he would have taken more, but even then they might have worn off by now. He rarely got more than maybe twenty-five, thirty hours out of them. He’d expected to be on the way back before he’d need to take more. That was no longer an option now, though. “One question.”

  John leaned back. “You know, I thought about that while you were out. And that’s the question: Who authorized your mission?”

  Hagen very nearly choked on his next breath and felt his face go cold. “My commanding officer.”

  “I don’t like you lying to me, Hagen. We had a deal. Or maybe you’ve misunderstood my question, so let me make it more precise: Who’s the man at the top who authorized your mission? The highest-ranking officer involved. Who signed this off?”

  Damn. Damn this American. Hagen shook his head. “I can’t . . .”

  “You’re SS. Your brother wasn’t. This is Wehrmacht playing with SS. I don’t know the ins and outs on your side, but I do know that sharing an objective doesn’t come easy in the Reich, if your shop is anything like ours. Why wouldn’t Wehrmacht save its own officer and its own face? Why get SS involved?”

  Hagen gritted his teeth. Of course that was clear. There was still a great deal of bad blood between the two military forces, or at the very least, rivalry. His brother had begrudged him not joining the Wehrmacht. But working in his brother’s shadow for the rest of his life had seemed like the least of all available options. He’d wanted to believe in a New Germany, had wanted the responsibility of being a future leader.

  You are an idealist, Hagen. But all ideals can be twisted and used, Sieg had warned him. They hadn’t precisely fought over it, but Hagen knew that Sieg had strongly disapproved. He’d hoped that if he led the successful mission, then Sieg would finally understand that they both served Germany in their own ways. Paper and bullets. It wasn’t ideological, just a question of means.

  “Who authorized the mission?”

  “Different question. I can’t tell you.”

  “I might not have made myself clear. You don’t get to choose.”

  Hagen considered him for a long moment, inspecting every hard line of John’s face for something, for some tell about what lengths he might go to in order to drag that information from him. He’d already had a taste of what the American was capable of. A cunning taste, a good taste.

  A good taste? Gott, Hagen. Get your head together.

  Perhaps John had gotten farther into his mind than he thought, with his hair-stroking and manipulative pretense of being a friend, a countryman. And now in Hagen’s exhausted mind, the line between enemy and something else was blurring. This was a man who intended to drag information out of him and use it against the Vaterland, and all Hagen could think was how much he’d loved the way John’s hands had felt on his skin. Callused, yes, and a little rough, but gentle. Soft in their own leathery way.

  “Hagen.” The voice wasn’t so soft. “Who signed off on this mission?”

  “No. Anything else.” He wanted to hold up his end of the barg
ain, but he’d never have expected the enemy to be so fiendishly clever. Besides, a small argumentative voice added, there had been no body left to see. Strictly speaking, it had been beyond John to honor that particular request. Strictly speaking, he owed him nothing.

  Hagen opened and closed his hands behind his back, the chain rattling quietly between them. “Our deal was for answers about my brother’s death, and a look at his body. In return, two answers.” He inclined his head a little, resisting the temptation to offer up a sly grin. “I was given answers, but no body. So . . . you have your one answer from me.”

  John’s dark eyes narrowed. “What would you have me do? Collect your brother’s ashes and sculpt him with some mud and snow? I didn’t present a body because there isn’t one.”

  “And I’m not giving you the answer you demand because it isn’t for you to know.” There should have been a swell of triumph in his chest just then, that quiet voice telling him “Gut gemacht, Hagen, you’ve outsmarted the son of a bitch.” But it wasn’t there. Nothing was there. Just a cold, dull reminder that he still didn’t have an advantage here, sitting chained in the chair where his brother had died.

  John blew out an irritated breath, stood up, and paced. Hagen watched him, too aware that John only had to call in some guards to beat him within an inch of his life. He’d heard stories of the Gestapo. Or the Sicherheitsdienst. They worked similarly. Sometimes, there wasn’t a hell of a lot left of people once they were done with them. Was John capable . . . of course he was. He’d tortured his brother. Why else would Sieg have sat in this chair? He shuddered and closed his eyes. He was tired. Too worn down to muster the courage he needed to ask for that beating.

  But John was a reasonable man, wasn’t he?

  Hagen opened his eyes and looked up at the restless American. “Offer me something else. To make up for the absence of my brother’s body.” He grinned in spite of his nerves. “Then perhaps I will owe you that answer after all.” True, the result would be the same, but it would buy him time.